Bona Fide
by Yomi
Summary: [EDITED][oneshot] Illumi is put in a group assignment and shares his thoughts with readers just what he thinks of his coworkers.


**BONA FIDE**

A Hunter Fanfic by Yom**  
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**Summary:** Illumi is put in a group assignment and shares his thoughts with readers just what he thinks of his co-workers.  
**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** Hunter x Hunter is copyrighted by Yoshihiro Togashi, Shounen Jump Weekly, Shueisha and Nippon Animation  
**Author's Notes (edited):** I felt guilty not placing the one-shot into some sort of proper context. I therefore revised it and gave it some semblance of structure along with a setting. It's a small crossover with Weiss Kruez and Freesia, but if you don't know the characters, it doesn't really matter.

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Sigh. 

Make that double and put them in italics.

I hate group assignments. Mother and Father didn't raise me up to be a 'team player'. I freely confess I wouldn't recognize leadership even if it bit me and took a great chunk out of my ass and I sure as hell was never taught to look out for others.

Corporate clients always seem to be able to convince themselves there's security in numbers and lump a number of infamous assassins together for the big game. Last time Grandpa and Father had been involved in a group assignment, it ended up disastrously. Half the people flocked together like frightened sheep and the other half went off to do their own stuff. Everyone but Grandpa and Father got killed, which just goes to prove it's not how many assassins you hire to get the job done, it's _who_ you hire.

And speaking of which, I'm working with amateurs and charlatans today, and to be treated as if I'm one of their ilk almost makes me want to ditch this job and head off to a remote island to sleep off the headache intent on hammering my skull to pieces. It's surprising how much contempt and despise I can work up when I put my mind to it.

"We're going to put a stop to this child trafficking organization!" a short blond haired man called Omi passionately declares, nodding at his three other associates at the same time.

The urge to roll my eyes is overwhelming, as is my gag reflex. Holding myself rigidly still on the sofa, I do my best to inconspicuously tune out so as to avoid appearing rude. Honestly though, what does our target's profession or occupation have to do with anything? And Omi's still raving, no, it's his brunette buddy flexing his retractable steel claws like a wannabe wolverine, boasting or something or rather, looking mighty full of himself as he goes about it.

I discreetly avert my gaze because my eyes were going to burn and explode out of its sockets if I kept staring at that quartet any longer. What I saw next made me inwardly grimace. Mister Foureyes was quiet, diminutive and hardly spoke a word during the conference. He said a few words if you directly asked him for his opinion, and even then, his opinion wasn't very insightful. Fifteen minutes after the start of the meeting, he picked up his cup of tea, pinky perfectly crooked, and was captivated by something in the liquid. That must be some special tea he's got there, because he's been frozen stiff as a statue and holding that cup three inches from his slightly parted lips for the past forty-five minutes, still staring.

When the hell did they start making unstable, traumatized bastards assassins? You can't even point him in the right direction and set him off after the target without worrying that he'll forget why he's here in the first place, leave the building and ask for directions to a nearby Starbucks for a chocolate milkshake.

I'm so tempted to leave the room under the pretense of a call of nature and never return. My bum almost leaves the seat as the only female assassin, Demona, throws the fifth wink at me this morning and runs her tongue over her upper and bottom lip like an out-of-control fan. She had been impressing everyone with her dexterity, incessantly flipping open and shut a butterfly knife during the meeting. I just want to cut her hand off to make her stop the infernal noise, but then, I'd be playing straight into her hands. With an attention-seeking pseudonym like 'Demona', you know she's the crazy type looking for a chance, any chance, to spill blood, hers or not.

Amateurs. All of them are bloody pirated versions of the genuine goods.

I'm a real assassin. There aren't many of us out there these days and it's difficult to find us amongst all the pretenders to the title. I've met a fair few in my career and trust me, they are a disgrace to the profession and a blight to the art.

Let's agree at least on what defines an assassin – we're killing machines, not the mentally ill, homicidal maniacs or crusading vigilantes with our own brand of justice. We exterminate our targets dispassionately, and it is demanded we do so with cold calculation and unfailing accuracy.

A real assassin such as myself would not pounce into the fray frothing at the mouth screaming for bloody violence and mayhem. Nor is it attractive or helpful in anyway to get carried away by laughing at twisted expressions of pain. For an assassin, killing is an act which is not to be enjoyed, but rather a necessary act which must be committed in order to satisfy our part of the bargain. If you enjoy chasing down people to savour the thrill of the hunt and like to intoxicate yourself on the scent of fear, you don't need assassination; you need to go home and find the number of your local psychiatrist in the phone book. It's probably discrimination to say this – but what do I care? – you're not an assassin, you're just a bloody fruit-loop.

We also don't bother to arouse our minds to the consequences or our assignments. We don't judge – we merely take orders and kill like the dependable killing machines we should be. We follow no politics, have no creed and thus are not dictated by nor subscribe to any set of morals. In fact, you could say the only thing we recognize and act upon is money and its proportionality to the risks involved in eliminating a target. I'm a money-loving son-of-a-bitch, no doubt about it. For the right price, anyone is fair game. You could be the harbinger of world peace, the second coming, for all I care, but because I don't, I could, and will, knock you off if quid pro quo is met.

Of course, all of this means is that if you piss someone off enough to make them pay exorbitant amounts of money to have your life snuffed out, you're a dead man walking and there's not much you can do about it. You can't appeal to our compassion or sympathy – it was never part of the equation to begin with – and what bodyguards you retain merely means we up the price on our end. And if I so happen to take the commission, you have no future because I only take commission for assignments I know I will complete. And don't bother with running; with my resources and mad genius of a brother on my side, there's no place on the face of the earth where you can establish shelter.

If you know you're dealing with a real assassin, there's one surefire way to stop them. Come on, think! What have I been ranting about all this time? If a real assassin ordinarily does not kill for pleasure or ideology or delusion and only acts for money, the answer's beautifully simple. No, don't offer me twice my commission when you're on your knees sniveling and begging after I've killed your guards and have you cornered. A breach of contract is not only unprofessional, it's also a stain on my reputation – I'd like to keep that pristine, thank you very much. If you were smart, you'd have hired another assassin to kill my client before I reach you. I stop functioning once party to the assassination contract dies.

Don't pull out the champagne to celebrate yet though. If my deceased client just so happened to set aside my commission in his estate – because some clients can be particularly vindictive bastards with the 'I'll-take-you-down-with-me' attitude – put pen to paper and start writing your will. Illumi Zoldick is coming for you, and he's never failed.

o-o-o-o

It's late in the night when I close in on the target. The carpet is soaked in blood, ruining my shoes, and it's because that bloody red-haired idiot chooses to swing his katana like it's some sort of party streamer and the moron with the retractable claws doesn't understand the meaning of 'quiet' and 'subtle'. Great – so much for my plan of stealthily catching the rest of the bodyguards by surprise.

If they were real assassins, they'd appreciate the rewards of a quick, soundless kill.

Mister Foureyes took out a few bodyguards in the first hour – he was a real impeccable shooter and had and an innate zetsu that was so perfect it could bring tears to your eyes. But as expected, he lost the plot halfway through. The last I saw of him before I breached the second level of the mansion, he was talking to the wall and might have chased a cat out into the forests.

Demona died trying to flee. I was wrapped in shadows at the time, and because Mother and Father never taught me to be a team player, I just stood by and watched her die. In the presence of a more accomplished hunter, she became pathetic, struggling prey trapped and hindered by the unfamiliar sensations of terror. It's quite interesting, really, and also a good revision lesson for myself never to overestimate my own abilities in any calculation. In death, Demona's eyes still bulged in fear and her mouth was open, continuing that silent scream she's no doubt orgasmed to in the past.

I hope she enjoyed her own blood and gore.

According to the floor plans Milluki provided me, I should be in the dining room right now, and a tilt of the candleholder fixed to the wall just to the side of the mantelpiece will reveal a hidden stairwell and direct to the panic room where the target ought to be hiding out.

Footsteps, four pairs of them, congregate towards me and in the dim light of the moon, I make out concerned, ye gods no, _hesitant_ expressions.

No, please don't talk to me. Please don't talk to me because I want to have nothing to do with you.

"Um…it's Illum isn't it?" says the shortest of them all.

It's just not my day and my headache begins to creep back. I swallow a momentary, but now quelled, eruption of annoyance and politely incline my head.

"We think something's wrong."

My interest is perked. If Milluki's given me bogus or faulty information, I'm not going to pay him a single cent. In fact, I'll demand a refund and promise excruciating pain if he reneges. I try to clarify the situation. "My sources tell me that we're in the right place."

The wire-user, tallest of them all, ventures a hypothesis. "No, we think this Jose Darringas might not be who our client says he is."

I don't bother to hide my confusion. Where on earth did they suddenly decide to come up with this idea? And again, how does this affect anything?

"Omi went through their computers and records. These guys appear to be _investigating_ the human trafficking and passing on the information to pol – "

I could just scream. I could scream and pull my hair out and stamp my feet complaining how unfair the world is, how I have to deal with all sorts of posers in my line of business and how I just want to finish the job and soak in a jacuzzi for a good hour before I get some well-deserved beauty sleep. The sudden stabbing pain in the sides of my temples actually makes me flinch and I realize that my tolerance has hit breaking point.

According to plan and schedule, I head towards the lever and give it a good tug as indicated in Milluki's instructions. The wall next to the fireplace partitions and a panel of the plaster easily lifts itself up and smoothly slides across, revealing an unlit passage resembling a winding stairwell.

"Hey, Illumi, aren't you listening?"

I inhale a deep breath. It appears that if I ignore them and pretend they don't exist, they won't magically go away. Darn it. Must I hold these children's hands and walk them through the dark arts of assassination?

I use my most patient voice on them. "I heard what you said. However, I don't think it's relevant. I am being paid to kill Darringas, and that is all."

They all look at me with varying degrees of disgust, incredulity, as if I am something so repulsive they must distance themselves away from. Irony doesn't get any more classic than this. Vintage, even. Here we five are, all with track-record of kills too many than we can care to remember yet if I am spurred on by another nine-digit figure, it's like 'whoa, dude, that's sick'.

No, I'm not sick, just brutally honest and obedient. If I take a commission, I see it through to the end. Does the pizza delivery guy boycott his job just because he objects to anchovies or because he believes obese people are not entitled to takeaway? No, he just takes his orders and delivers the pizza like he's told to.

No opinions. No judgements. No ulterior motives other than the fact he's being paid 12 bucks an hour plus tips.

Yeah, you heard me right. It's the point I've been trying to make all along. I attach no significance to kills, just as the McDonalds chick asks "would you like fries with that" not because she delights in the sound of her own voice, but because it's part of her job requirement.

I finish the job and make my way out of the mansion, throbbing pain in my head waning in the reality that I am 200 million jenis richer. The four morons calling themselves Weiss have gone; they've probably returned back to headquarters to wreak some personal justice on my client. Thankfully the money's already in my account – so they can do whatever they want, but personally, I think it's stupid of them to work themselves up into a sweat and not make any tangible gains. Really, satisfaction and vindication doesn't pay for a six star hotel or a buffet breakfast.

Out of the corner of my eyes, I see Mister Foureyes sitting huddled against a tree trunk. For some reason, I take a moment's pity on that guy and call out his name.

"Hey…Kano was it? Want to head back to the hotel and get room service? I could use a midnight snack."

"Could you please be a little quieter? My memories are a little fragmented at the moment and I'm trying to remember where I am."

This guy's hilarious. He kills like a pro but his mind's a total mess. Perhaps the business of assassination was thrust upon the unwitting he and he couldn't hack it. I can imagine him as a discharged soldier, though he doesn't look old enough to even be a veteran.

Shrugging aside his answer, I haul him up onto his feet and steer him away. I consider it my treat – after all, he did get rid of some guards, lessening my workload. He follows, compliant and submissive, and I find myself shaking my head as if I have just picked up a stray, starved mutt.

Assassination isn't really that hard. You train your body to give you the necessary skills and enough intelligence to plan and adjust. But perhaps the simpler things are hardest to master. It's not Einstein, though maybe others don't realize, try too hard and as a result stuff it all up.

"Fishballs and ramen sound good to you?"

"…yeah."


End file.
